


Parental Figures

by Jellycho (Nyxokal)



Series: Paths Taken [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Canon-Typical Violence, Dad 76, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Families of Choice, Friendship, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Love/Hate, M/M, POV Second Person, Past Relationship(s), Reunions, Shooting Range, Team Bonding, Team as Family, dad jokes, really long action scene, shitty flirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-04
Updated: 2016-06-04
Packaged: 2018-07-11 18:23:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7065106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyxokal/pseuds/Jellycho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The only thing left to do is take it and let it be, embrace your new position as apparent single father of at least ten people of different ages — some of them even older than you — and move on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Parental Figures

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Parental Figures（翻译）](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7546687) by [PPPParkinglot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PPPParkinglot/pseuds/PPPParkinglot)



> Guess Who Got Into Overwatch
> 
> Special thanks go to Aly, for being my partner in crime in writing this out; Gingey, for giving me the idea in the first place and reading my draft; and Red, who suggested plot points and helped me when I was stuck. Y'all are the best ppl ever and super motivated me to finish this shit and make it as gay as Reaper and 76's stubborn old asses could allow. Thank you <3 
> 
> Without further ado, pls enjoy ヾ(_ _*)

It starts with McCree. 

You find him cleaning his revolver in the locker room one morning. He's humming, obviously in a chipper mood, and you can tell that he'd start whistling any second were it not for the lit cigar between his lips. You walk in with a bowl of food and a spoon in your right hand, grumbling under your breath because McCree, once again, has missed breakfast for the sake of the bonding time with his damn gun.

"McCree," you speak. He grunts in acknowledgement, but otherwise doesn't look up from his work. You stop next to him and clear your throat. "McCree. Breakfast."

He grunts again.

Annoyance bubbles at the back of your throat, releases itself in a low growl. You don't want to deal with this — you have more important things to do than babysit a grown man so he consumes the most important meal of the day. But the situation takes you back, a little, so you mostly let it slide.

Not that McCree knows about that. He still thinks you're dead.

Whatever. You growl the thoughts away, poke McCree's shoulder with the bowl. He doesn't bulge. You try again, pushing this time, still softly, and now you manage to elicit a grumble from him. _"McCree,"_ you repeat yourself in an authoritative hiss. "Your breakfast. _Take it._ "

McCree's lip twitches. You're pretty sure he's ignoring you on purpose now, and you stubbornly decide you will not be defeated so easily. With a huff you push the bowl again, hard enough this time to shove his arm away and interrupt his work. The tools he's using to clean the revolver's barrel slip through his fingers, clanking against the table, and you hear him hissing out a curse in half-baked Spanish under his breath.

The man looks up at you, then, eyes squinted with obvious anger. He takes the cigar from his lips and pettily puffs out some smoke at your face, and you're almost tempted to laugh. 

"What."

You hold the bowl to his face. "Breakfast."

The cigar is back between his lips. McCree stares at the bowl for a moment, eyebrow raised, before a quiet chuckle escapes him, his shoulders rising and falling. You don't move.

He takes a deep breath when he's done, takes the cigar and puts it out on the tray near his right elbow. McCree's grinning when he takes the bowl from your hands, when he looks you straight in the eyes and says, almost innocently, "Thanks, dad."

God damn it. 

You're not sure whether you're surprised or not, because, honestly? With the kind of history you have with him you kinda knew that this was coming. You don't even have the time to react, anyway, because as soon as the words leave his mouth he's already laughing out loud, blindly reaching for the spoon still in your hand. Your mask hides your impressive scowl.

As soon as McCree takes the spoon, you grumble small curses, turn around, and leave the laughing son of a gun behind.

* * *

You supervise people's training sometimes. You pretend it's because it makes you feel useful, because you need to be doing something at all times, but in reality you only do it when and because D.VA is using the firing range while unsupervised.

This won't do.

She's out of her MEKA unit, wearing her cargo pants and a tank top, firing away with her handgun. You almost want to suggest she use a larger weapon instead, but you know D.VA needs to be light on her feet in case her MEKA is out of commission. So you stand near her, at a safe distance, pretending to do something with a panel when in reality you're watching her out of the corner of your eye, observing her techniques.  

Her stance is all wrong, and she's holding the weapon ineffectively for the most part. You can feel your frown etching itself into your face as you watch, wrinkling it further, the grumbling coming back full force. A few more minutes pass as you watch, and you don't even notice you've forgotten to pretend to be interested on the panel until you've cleared your throat to get her attention.

D.VA's looking at you now. She scrunches up her nose, sets a hand on her hip, and pops her bubblegum. "Yes?"

You're thankful for your mask hiding the lost look on your face, then you deliberately ignore the voice in your head calling you old for not knowing how to talk to a nineteen year old. "Your stance is all wrong," you tell her. "I've seen you do much better than that. Put a little more backbone into it." 

She smirks at that for some reason. "Yeah, yeah," she turns back around and starts up another round. "Thanks. I totally got this, though."

You don't even bother anymore; now your full attention is in watching D.Va's firing practice. She's fast, but her response time needs some work, and you tell her so. She chirps up a snarky reply for you. She's not holding herself correctly, and you tell her so. Her reply is a series of Korean grumbles you don't bother asking a translation for; you know she's annoyed. It goes on and on like this for the two of you, until soon enough you end up standing beside her, commenting on her performance.

"You're not angling yourself correctly," you say after D.Va's third attempt at trying out the moving dummies. One of the doors to your left opens and you see Lúcio walk in, but you ignore him in favour of pushing D.VA's arms a up with a pen. "Try holding your arms a little higher and lowering your center of gravity."

"I do have training, you know," D.Va pouts.

You snort and raise your eyebrow. "Videogames are not training."

"Whatever, dad."

Your instincts tell you to recoil at the word, but your age and experience make you sigh and drop your face into your left hand instead. At the back of the room you hear Lúcio wheezing out a laugh, slap his knee. You're 100% sure McCree's to blame for this and you're going to _castrate him._

In front of you D.Va just smirks, a sweet cat-like curve of lips, and fires her gun away as if nothing has happened.

* * *

It's been three days and they're still calling you 'dad.' At some point it gets even worse, because one day Tracer overhears Lúcio saying 'I got you, dad' to you after training goes wrong, and then all hell breaks loose when, during lunch, she goes ahead and calls you 'dad' from halfway across the room for all to hear. 

They've got half the youngsters in the base in on the 'dad' joke now. Are you supposed to be amused or to scream out in frustration? You don't know, but you find that you're stuck in a combination of both that's leaning more towards 'Royally Annoyed.'

The truth is that it's a little surreal, sometimes, hearing a few of your old teammates jokingly refer to you as their father. You're absolutely certain that they don't know the truth behind your literal and metaphorical masks, but it's still eerie to you — you remember there was a time, once, when they jokingly called you something else instead, when someone else had the misfortune of being 'dad.'

You prefer not to dwell. You are not Commander Jack Morrison anymore, and the old Blackwatch Commander is no longer here to laugh this all off with you. But sometimes, sometimes it just hits too hard. Maybe sometimes Lena gets too into the joke, or someone does something that mirrors your past a little too well, or you start thinking and your thoughts wander too far away from you to catch and stop them. For times like these you always make your way to the firing range and practice, shoot and shoot and shoot until you complete the training and there's no bullet in your cartridge left to vent with.

It's not their fault. It's yours.

* * *

You start to really understand why everyone's calling you 'dad' on your first mission on Route 66, together with D.Va, Lúcio, and Tracer in your team.

Mercy stands near you at all times, too, enhancing your defenses and keeping morale high for you. And you really need that morale, because you're trying hard not to freak out and pull everyone behind you for protection — because D.Va is _nineteen_  and Lúcio may be fast but you know his gun isn't the greatest, and Tracer is getting a little too cocky to your liking so you send Mercy out to please help her, and holy shit, did D.Va just blow up her MEKA? What the hell is she thinking—

She runs past you at some point after she blows the MEKA up. You grab her arm and ignore her loud protests, shoving her behind a pile of rubble as you set up a Biotic Field around you both. 

"Stay where I can see you," you order. You set camp up and defend your position while the field works its magic. "What were you thinking, blowing up your damn unit?" 

D.Va is making offended sounds behind you, but she ducks behind the rubble anyway. "It was an emergency!" she shouts over the noise. "I thought we had all discussed and agreed on this tactic before!"

You had, but you choose not to give her that point right now because she's practically defenseless in the middle of a _fucking battlefield,_ and you're just not having that. "You could've asked for backup."

D.Va's now kneeling next to you, still in the Biotic Field, thankfully, shooting away with you to defend this point. You notice her putting what she's learned from you to use and feel something akin to pride pop within you. When she's out of ammo she sinks back down to reload, then presses her fingers to comm in her ear. "Is everyone else hearing this?" she snorts. "Dad's being overprotective again."

You grumble something in your defense, but Tracer and Lucio's laughter, and then joking, fill the comm line and drown you out. You even think you hear Mercy joining in on the fun, but the gunfire picks up right then and you're left in the dark about it. You shake your head; what did you do to deserve being teamed up with three of the youngest members of this weird Overwatch reboot?

Something at the back of your mind reminds you that Tracer is probably older than she looks, what, Chronal Dissociation and all, but you choose to ignore that also. She doesn't act her age anyway.

Fun is over when your Biotic Field soon runs out of steam and comes to an end. You curse, slowly get up from your spot to walk backwards while shooting to find somewhere safer, D.Va thankfully on tow and trying to lay low. You're fine with being the decoy if it gets her out of here safely. She turns and rushes behind you and away when her handgun runs out of ammo.

"Don't worry, dad," you hear Lúcio's voice through comm as you roll out and reload. "I'm on my way to get her out of trouble."

" _Oh-em-gee,_  Lúcio!" comes D.Va's reply. You don't hear her behind you, so you assume she got away fast. The relief you feel is almost palpable. "Everybody chill! I can take care of myself. And there'll be another MEKA deployed later!"

You're about to thank Lúcio, but a sudden explosion to your left causes the words in your throat to die out and make way for a small shriek instead — something sharp's flown at you and hit your shoulder blade, leaving behind a burning pain. You've got no time to dwell on it, though, when a deep laugh fills the area you're in and gives you extreme goosebumps.

"Uh-oh," you hear Tracer say as you nervously look around. "Do I hear the Reaper?" 

Reaper? What kind of edgy name is that?

_Oh, I dunno. What kind of name is Soldier: 76?_

Whatever. There's no time to waste, now, because suddenly you're under fire and so is everyone else you were fighting off earlier. Weird. You roll on your stomach, away, and get up with a quick push of your hands. Your back is killing you. You turn around with your rifle ready to fire just as a shadowy  _something_ descends from the walls and covers the area with black smoke, that laughter still echoing all over the place.

Shit. 

You lower yourself and pick a direction to walk towards, trying to hit a wall or find an opening to exit from. Any and every noise is making you jumpy and you hate it, because now that everyone else is dead it's just too damn _quiet._  You grumble under your breath, turning around periodically to scan your surroundings, and ignore the concerned 'dad?'s your team is currently filling the comm with.

You'll report in when you're safely out of here.

The smoke begins to swirl around you. You turn around just in time to see it congregating in one spot, forming a shape, and in no time you're facing two very large shotguns pointed at your head, a white mask behind them, shrouded in a dark robe and an aura that triggers the alarms of _'danger danger get the hell out of here'_ in your head.

The figure laughs, that deep sound from earlier, and says, "Time to reap."

_Are you kidding me—_

Before either of you can react there's a flash of blue somewhere to your left. Reaper's attention is immediately stolen by none other than Tracer herself, firing away and whooping loudly as she teleports all over the place. Reaper's annoyed growl precedes him drawing the shotguns to fire away at her, trying to hit a quick target, and if he doesn't kill her then you _so are,_ because this is careless and you know exactly what she's doing.

You use the diversion, anyway, and duck and roll away through an open gate. You ignore the pain on your back to run as far away from the scene as possible until you find Mercy crouching behind D.Va, her healing tether engaged on the girl.

As soon as you're together you set up another Biotic Field and take up a defensive position. A few minutes later Tracer thankfully teleports in, kneels next to you, and covers for D.Va when the girl has to reload her handgun again. Lúcio's the last one to arrive, sliding in and almost crashing against the wall as he catches his breath. Now the gang's all here, and you say, "We're pulling back."

Half your team is protesting, but Mercy just nods and calls for an extraction. You know D.Va and Lúcio are not going anywhere, but you see Tracer pout and turn away towards the battlefield where she left Reaper. Thankfully, you're faster this time; you grab her by the ankle and stop her in her tracks before she darts out from the frying pan and into the fire again.  

"You're not going anywhere," you're growling. "We're done here. Our team is ineffective. We've got to accept that and go back home in one piece."

"But _dad!"_ she's whining. 

"Quit it, Lena," you snap, and then you cringe hard because, god, that sure takes you back and you _definitely_ sound like her father now. Out of the corner of your eye you see Mercy's eyes widen, but you choose to ignore that. You're good at ignoring things like these now. "We're moving out," you quickly add when your field shuts down, getting up and making your way back and away from this ruined part of Route 66, your whole team on tow.

As you move out you think you see something sneaking parallel to your team, but when you turn and point your rifle at it, it's gone.

* * *

The mission is a failure and half your team is grumpy about it. You don't really mind, though, because you've managed to get all of them back to safety without any casualties, the worst of the worst being the injury on your shoulder blade that has slowly ruined your jacket and undershirt. You've had worse, but Mercy's having none of that; as soon as you land back on base she takes your arm between her gloved hands, smiles flatly, and drags you out and away towards the medical bay to patch you up.

You let yourself be led away by her. You have enough experience with Angela Ziegler's medical stubbornness to know that resistance is futile.

Half an hour later you're sitting on a soft hospital bed, bloodstained clothes on the table, while she examines and cleans the medium-sized cut on your back. You refuse to take your mask off. The rag she's using burns and you hiss a little when it makes contact with your exposed muscle, but otherwise you take it and soldier on; it's what you do. Mercy's careful and gentle with the procedure, anyway, and you're grateful for her downright merciful nature. 

You groan at yourself.

Mercy hears you and sighs. You can hear the apologetic smile in her voice when she speaks. "You're doing great, Soldier. Just a little longer."

"Thanks, doctor," you're at least polite.

She hurries a little after the exchange, and soon she's done cleaning and disinfecting the cut. There's no more bleeding to be stopped, so Mercy lets you rest for a moment as she prepares everything to suture your wound. It's deep enough to require it, she said, and you tense up a bit. You've already gone through this many times before, sometimes on your own, but you never get used to it.

Mercy's hands are soon found on the exposed skin of your shoulder, squeezing gently. It's a comforting gesture of hers that you're very familiar with. "Alright," she says. "Let us get this over with, yes?"

This kind of pain isn't as bad as getting cut with heavy, sharp debris is, but it's still constant and it mostly just pisses you off. So you nod, grateful for the heads-up, and let your mind drift off for a distraction just as she begins.

You think of D.Va blowing up her MEKA unit. You understand her point and the reasoning behind that move, but you still wish she could've relied on you a little more before exposing herself like that. You think of Lúcio's quick thinking and good job keeping your team healthy and refreshed, but then you remember how exhausted he was when he caught up to your team and grimace. He needs to work on that and prioritize his healing, maybe even stop trying to act like Tracer and not dash head-first into the fray when he thinks he can do it.

Tracer. Oh, Lena. She has not changed a bit, and that worries you; she's fast, she's deadly, and she's cocky as all hell and you really don't want her putting herself in front of a couple of large shotguns like that again. You could've dealt with Reaper. She knows this. The only one in your team who didn't almost drive you insane with their careless behaviour is the medic currently sticking a needle into your flesh to close the cut.

She's humming now, another comforting gesture. You let the sound wash over you as you sigh, drag your good hand down your face. Mercy notices you growing restless again and chuckles. "Are you thinking about the mission?"

You nod and she sighs. Somehow, that opens the flood gates of your thoughts. "They were reckless," you grumble. "Next time, we need to gather a different team for deployment until Lúcio, D.Va, and Tracer learn some discipline and proper teamwork. Those three are not effective when put together like that."

"I'm sure they know about teamwork," Mercy hums again. "But what kind of team would you suggest? Why?" 

You're bouncing your leg now. You know what she's doing, just keeping your mind busy, but the questions are still good and you genuinely want to think and answer them with logic. "Winston," you stick out a finger as you count him in, "because he can hold his ground and is aware of his limits and strengths. Genji," two fingers, "because he's fast and agile yet favours stealth over speed. McCree," you actually grumble, "because he's resourceful and his sense of self-preservation extends to those in his team. Torbjörn," you add another finger, "because he's nothing but efficient and his turrets would be a great advantage no matter the field."

"You're missing two more, Soldier."

You don't even think when you speak. "The other two are you and me, doctor. They need a commander and a medic who can keep them in check, and I'm capable of providing my Biotic Field, so we've technically got two medics with me included."

You feel her stop for a second. It's such a short moment that you would've missed it if you weren't concentrating on her reaction on your suggestion, but you catch it, and it throws you off guard for some reason you can't explain. "Soldier," you hear her whisper. "Those are all members of the original Overwatch team."

Oh. _Oh._

"Good," you say after swallowing down your surprise. "They'll know how to work together, then."

"Of course they will," Mercy says. She finishes up with your wound and cuts the thread, putting away the needle and grabbing for bandages to cover it up with. You exhale and run a hand through your short white hair, thinking about how this is almost done and you can soon go do your mission report, when suddenly Mercy clears her throat and catches your attention again. "And I'm sure they will work well with you, too," she says, soft like the wind, "because at least they won't be calling you 'mom' this time."

You freeze.

All of your muscles tense up with a shiver the moment you hear the word 'mom.' You cannot help it. A small part of you says it's ridiculous that such a word can cause this kind of reaction on you, a grown man, but an even bigger part of you knows your reaction is exactly the kind of thing Angela wanted to see, and that you've fucked up real bad. You hear her sighing, then feel one of her gentle hands rest on your bare back, trying to ease a little bit of the tension that's struck you — Mercy, Angela, she wouldn't be who she is without all of her comforting gestures.

Her hand twitches over your skin. She pulls it away and you hear her preparing the bandages to finish up the job, the noise drowning out a soft sniffle. "Jack," her voice is a whisper. "What's happened to you?"

The stress drains away from your body when you hear her voice quivering ever so slightly. Is she happy, sad, or disappointed in you? You don't know, but it really doesn't matter because now you've gone and made her cry. Jack Morrison always hated seeing Angela Ziegler, one of his best friends, in distress, and even though you're not Jack anymore you still share that small part with him deep within.

She patches you up in silence, save for her sporadic sniffling, until she's done. You exchange a look, then, quiet and heavy and _sad,_ and you instinctively reach up for her hand and hold it to try and comfort her. 

Angela's other hand covers her face as she cries. You look down and mentally beg her not to mourn anymore.

* * *

You're out of commission for a few days while your injury heals up on its own. For a while you entertain yourself continuing your training for D.Va in the shooting range, but then Tracer joins in and you've got your hands full with just the two of them, and then when McCree invites himself all the fun is drained from the activity.

You're not sure if 'done' is an emotion, but if it were, you'd definitely be feeling it right now.   

Another day, another practice session down in the range. You walk by Tracer and watch her dual-wield a couple of handguns, her index fingers twitching uncontrollably against the triggers. These aren't her usual pistols and it shows: they don't rapid-fire, they recoil too hard for her hands, and you can tell she's quickly getting frustrated with them.

All you can really do for her is place your hand on her shoulder and squeeze reassuringly. She jumps at first, but when she sees it's you she flashes you a bright grin, winks, and goes back to try and dominate the handguns with her tongue sticking out like she's some puppy. 

You're not going to question her anymore.

"Stop spinning the gun, McCree," you say when you spot him. You slap his hat from behind so it falls over his eyes and he yelps. You're painfully aware of the giggles this action elicits from Zarya and Lúcio, who have decided to sit nearby and spectate the show while Zarya does some maintenance on her cannon, but once again you ignore that. "Take this class seriously or you're out."

McCree growls at you as you walk away from him and towards D.Va. "Fuck you, dad." 

You're already by D.Va's side when you hear it. "Language," you reprimand, mostly because there's people younger than thirty present and you're not about to be held responsible for them picking up on his hideous language. You lightly tap at D.Va's outstretched arms with your fingers to get her to lift them a little. She snorts and rolls her eyes at you, but she obeys, and you actually allow yourself to smirk under your mask. She's getting so much better at this already; it's obvious she's been listening to your advice and following through with what she's learned under your watch.

A part of you scolds you for playing favourites, but another part of you tells it off by reminding it that these are your teammates, not your actual children.

D.Va, by virtue of being your original student and having had longer to practice, nothing else, finishes her programmed training first. She throws her fist up in the air with a loud whoop, then runs up to Lúcio for a high five that quickly turns into — into a secret handshake, you realize. You roll your eyes and shake your head fondly.

You let her go and take a break with Lúcio and Zarya on the benches. Tracer's patience is starting to shine through, and her shots are becoming a little more precise. You reassure her that she's doing a great job and she perks up immediately, fingers dangerously twitching, and you remind her not to get too trigger happy. She laughs and calls you dad, too, but you just take it with a grunt of half-acknowledgement, half-irritation and move on to McCree's side. 

McCree's doing awful.

"This is shit," he's saying, holding the generic military handgun as if it were his precious little revolver. He's having the same problem that Tracer had, trying to rapid-fire his way through life, except he has none of her patience and you know he's going to be here forever if you don't put a stop to his madness. "Fuckin' thing," he lowers himself and pulls the trigger, growls. "This gun sucks. I miss my Bianca."

You do a double-take. "Bianca?"

McCree nods. "She's perfect in every way, my Bianca. She's fast, custom-made, and absolutely gorgeous. Reloading her is faster and much more comfortable, too." He finishes reloading and instinctively flicks the handgun up in the air. He cringes. "It's almost like we're soulmates."

"What?" you hear Lúcio say. "You can't be soulmates with a gun."

"She's more than just a gun, kid. She's my Bianca."

Tracer's training program comes to an end and she laughs. She twirls the guns in her hands when she thinks you're not looking. You're just about to scold her when she speaks up. "I have a similar relationship with my pistols," she says. "I've even named them, too: Cheeky and Nandos."

"The hell are Cheeky Nandos?" McCree says.

You speak before anyone else gets the chance to do so: "Worry about that later." You step in between Tracer and McCree, facing him, and cross your arms. Upon seeing you interrupt, Tracer takes her leave and sits next to Zarya on the bench. Their quiet conversation in the background is easy to ignore. "You're not finished with the program yet."

McCree licks his lips. You wonder if he misses the cigar. "Fuck the program," he says. "I hate this fuckin' weapon. Give me something else instead."

"McCree. Language."

"Yeah, right, whatever." He puts the handgun down and makes a face at you, eyebrow raised, and you momentarily wonder if he's throwing a tantrum right now. You wouldn't put it past him, to be honest. "Let me use Bianca."

You gently hide your face in your hand with a sigh. "You need to be well-versed in a multitude of weapons besides your usual revolver."

"Bianca and I are practically one, pops," he says. "I won't use anything other than her. Feels wrong; she's the only one for me. Hell, I even feel like I'm cheating on her by usin' this piece of trash. It's like we're married."

He's pushing at all your buttons to get you to agree and you know this. You want to stand your ground, but he's actually starting to get on your nerves, and you really want all of this to stop as soon as possible, so you give up. "You don't say," you mumble as you bring up a panel on the wall to stop McCree's program. "That must've been a shotgun wedding."

You hear Zarya wheezing and Tracer choking. Intertwining with those sounds are D.VA and Lúcio's quiet giggles that soon explode into full-blown laughter, then Tracer's high pitched cackling. Someone's even slapping the metal benches. Well, fuck. You weren't really thinking when you said that, and now you feel an uncomfortable warmth crawl up your neck and attach itself onto your face. This is bad. 

The panel shuts down and you make the mistake of looking up and meeting McCree's eyes. He's already smirking when you look at him, but when your eyes lock he actually _grins,_  and you tense.

"Did you just dad joke me?"

Oh, _god,_ you did. You're _growling,_  and now he's _laughing,_ and you're warm and uncomfortable and you're pretty sure there's a blush on you, which is probably only visible on your forehead, and that's absolutely embarrassing. Your shoulders sag as you throw your hands in the air, defeated, and let the world burn around you.

This is fine.

* * *

You just give up by the time even Pharah and _Reinhardt_ are calling you dad during the breaks they share with you while you heal. You sealed your fate with the stupid shotgun joke. The only thing left to do is take it and let it be, embrace your new position as apparent single father of at least ten people of different ages — some of them even older than you — and move on. 

And yet something doesn't feel right about this. It was okay at first, when it was just a little joke between the youngest members of your team, but now with everyone in on it there's something about it that doesn't sit well with you. You don't know why, but you feel as though you're not worthy of the position of 'dad.' It's such a ridiculous thing to feel when you put it that way, but when you really think about it you feel even more uncomfortable than before.

Because Mercy was right. You were never 'dad' to Overwatch — back when you were young, when Jack Morrison was still the name you took on and you were still second-in-command, you were 'mom.' It made sense, you thought back then, for everyone else to hook you with the title when you were so close to your Commander, the man whom everyone used to joke about being their 'dad.'

It was always the two of you, anyway, organizing everything and taking care of business. Commander Gabriel Reyes and Jack Morrison, his right hand man, dubbed the unofficial parents of the Overwatch unit. Such an innocent joke. You remember everyone's teasing, the  _'Here come mom and dad'_ whenever you walked into a room together, the  _'Mommy and Daddy are fighting'_ whenever you disagreed, and even your  _'I don't know, ask your father'_ whenever someone forgot you had no real authority and it was all up to Reyes.

You hate thinking about it, but it's almost impossible to avoid it these days. With this development you almost feel like you're stealing something from Gabriel again, even in death, but then you remember the time when the son of a bitch tried to kill you for something that wasn't even under your control and the feeling passes. That wound is still fresh for you, and you don't know how long it'll take for you to forget and forgive, or if you even will. So you shake your head and stop reminiscing, grit your teeth and barely accept the mantle of 'father' everyone seems so passionate about dressing you with.

A part of you wonders if you're doing it out of spite. You don't even bother answering it anymore.

* * *

The bandages come off sooner than expected. Everyone's surprised except for Angela and yourself; you're filled with wonderfully modified super soldier genes, after all. Your enhanced healing is what's gotten you so far as a vigilante. This is nothing new. As celebration you're allowed to join a team and go out there on a sweet little mission, so long as Mercy is there to watch over you, just in case. It's protocol, but you find that you don't really mind — you get to hang out with one of your still-living best friends, after all, so what's there not to like about the agreement?  

But you digress.

This evening you're running down the streets of King's Row, under fire, with a team consisting of Mercy, Genji, Reinhardt, Tracer, and Torbjörn. Your attackers are members of Talon camping up above on a balcony, shooting at you. You duck for cover near an intersection, hold your rifle close to your chest, and await for the gunfire to stop and open the perfect opportunity to unleash hell with your Tactical Visor's aid. Over the comms you hear Torbjörn screaming something about a sniper — a statement Mercy confirms from her safe spot behind Reinhardt's shield.

Well, great. You scoot over a little further into your hiding spot and scan the rooftops for any suspicious activity. Genji says something about clearing the road up ahead for you, and a minute later you spot a flash of green dashing and climbing a wall of across from where you are. Soon enough half the people shooting at you are distracted by sudden shurikens to the face.

You click your tongue, decide to save the Visor's auto-aim for another time, and roll out of your spot. You trust Genji with keeping you safe from above. You hide out behind a low wall and place a Biotic Field when Tracer joins you. She's here mostly to cover you while you open fire and try to clear the area, but you end up covering each other in the end anyway, and it's an improvement from last time when she actually stays within your Field. Somewhere in the distance you hear the sound of Reinhardt slamming someone against a car, and over the comm Torbjörn confirms a couple of turrets have been built and deployed. 

You can't believe how proud you are of this team's coordination.

Genji's still up on the rooftops trying to find the sniper Torjbörn mentioned earlier. Tracer cheerfully decides to join him on the search, and before you can agree or disagree she's gone in a flash of blue. You sigh, clear your throat, and reload your rifle. "Coast's clear around The Meridian," you say. "Any news on our friends?"

Reinhardt speaks first. "A few stragglers are retreating down the street. Mercy and I are pursuing; we are currently near Moriarty's Fine Books Bookshop!"

"Ohh, I can see the rest up ahead!" Tracer says next. "They're on their way to the factory!"

Alright. Your Biotic Field shuts down, and you nod to yourself and start running down to meet up with Reinhardt and Mercy. Genji mutters something in Japanese that you recognize as an acknowledgement, then says something about the area being mostly clear with no sign of any sniper. Still, he and Tracer remain on their spots high above, moving along from rooftop to rooftop, keeping an eye out for all of you just in case. 

You enter an alley for a shortcut and only cringe a little when Torbjörn's voice thunders in, saying, "Reinhardt! Last one there buys the post-mission drinks!"

_"Ja,_ my friend!" The heavily armoured man laughs in response. Hearing Reinhardt laughing has always made you smile. You really can't help it; it's _that_ contagious. "I gladly accept your challenge!" 

You hate being the party pooper but someone's gotta do it. "Everybody focus on the task at hand," you remind them. The alley comes to an end and you cross the street to enter another one on the opposite side, trying both to hide yourself from any stragglers and from Schrödinger's Sniper. 

Tracer laughs, obviously enjoying her time racing a cyborg ninja with parkour. Aside from that the rest of the way to the factory is mostly quiet, everybody covering different ground and staying on high alert for anything that might happen. There's a surprising lack of dad comments from your team, especially considering Tracer is here, but you're not complaining about that. 

In no time and unsurprisingly, Genji and Tracer are the firsts to arrive to the destination. You order them to perch themselves high above and keep a lookout for the rest of you, then for Genji to play scout and give you a description of what he can see. It's not part of the order, but he goes out of his way to infiltrate the factory and take a quick peek inside. Just as Winston thought, he says, there's an EMP bomb hidden deep inside, heavily guarded by at least thirteen of Talon's men from multiple angles and heights. 

Right. You're going to have to formulate a plan for this. Over the comm Torbjörn announces his arrival and victory over Reinhardt, but you're busy racking your brain to come up with a good strategy that encompasses all your strengths to pay any attention to it. Mercy calls for an extraction now that the target has been found. You've got a team with three offensive players, one defensive, a tank, and your healer. As previously mentioned in the medical bay with Angela you can kind of act as a healer, too, so you count that skill of yours in—

A gunshot over your head interrupts your thoughts. You momentarily tense, recognize it as the sound of a sniper rifle firing, and within seconds your team panics. "Sniper!" you hear Torbjörn shout, but you don't get any reaction time when another bullet grazes your left calf and causes you to trip. White-hot pain. Though you catch and bite down the loud scream in your mouth, you still groan in pain, alerting your teammates to your current situation.

There's the sound of more gunfire in the distance and you curse. "I'm under fire!" Genji shouts, confirming your suspicions of this whole deal being an elaborate ambush. "They are moving the bomb out!"

You are still under fire as well. You push yourself up and dive for cover, rifle held close, and scan the roofs. Your leg hurts. Will you ever not be injured in a mission? God damn. "Eyes on the target, people!" you say. "Do not let that bomb leave the perimeter!" 

Reinhardt, Genji, and Torbjörn acknowledge your order. You're not really surprised when Tracer immediately disobeys you, though. "Cavalry's on its way to back you up, dad!" she says.

Ah, there— You spot a figure moving in the darkness above and open fire. "Negative!" you shout over the noise and promptly lose track of your attacker. Damn. "The cargo is your top priority, soldier! Stick with the group!"

It's Mercy speaking this time. "You have been shot and require medical attention, Soldier. Tracer is simply escorting me to your position."

"Stop worrying about me and go provide assistance to the others!" you shout. You need to reload. Up above, you hear a low, rumbling laugh echoing over the next bullet aimed at your head. You dodge and realize that, whoever this sniper is is probably just toying with you, and you growl as you roll out of your current spot to hide somewhere else where you hope they can't see you. 

This is ridiculous. Tracer is not going to listen and you know this, so you just drop it and focus back on your attacker — you need to be quiet, anyway. As soon as you've reloaded you peek out, carefully tap onto your visor's auto-aim aid for good measure. No readings show up. It's a messed up game of hide and seek, all this, and you need to figure out a way to get out of it ASAP.

Something explodes in the distance and Reinhardt laughs in the comm. You use the loud sound to hide your groan of pain when you test your leg. The wound is bleeding and hurting like a motherfucker, and it's going to limit most of your mobility, but you can't set up a Biotic Field for yourself without giving your position away. You'll just have to hold on, not think too hard on the pain and blood, and move on with your life.

What a god damn mess.

Over the ongoing battle up ahead, you hear the echo of something hitting the wet floor of this alleyway, then soft footsteps. You feel yourself frowning; were those high heels? They sounded like high heels. 

You snap out of it when you hear a woman's voice saying "I see you," followed by someone running into your field of vision and swinging their rifle at you.

She's blue. That's the first thing you notice about her when you jump out, turn, and fire back at her. Alright. Someone in the comm is yelling about a turret. The next thing you notice is the incredibly large weapon in her hands, how it's now working as an assault rifle instead of as a sniper rifle, and how insanely hard to dodge it is when your leg is in so much pain. Okay. 

You're in trouble. You jump and roll behind a pillar, reload—

"Calvary's here!"

_Oh my god, Lena,_ you're mentally shrieking. The next thing you know, you're watching the sniper who'd been terrorizing you be tackled from behind, rolling away from you with Lena right on top of her. She drops her gun. Mercy lands next to you a little later and engages her healing tether on you, the refreshing feeling washing over your body and directing itself to your leg.

You keep your eyes on Lena. Your teammate is laughing, straddling the woman and pinning her down by the arms, and you can't believe your eyes when you see her _winking._  "Evening, love," Lena says. "You come here often?"

"Evening, _chérie,_ "the sniper grumbles back. "I was just leaving, actually."

What? _What?_  You splutter and turn with eyebrows raised at Mercy, pointing at the two of them because they're  _flirting,_  right there in front of you, and all Angela does is shrug and continue with her quick-healing job. You cannot believe this. You turn back to the two girls, one hell of a scolding ready in your throat, and freeze when you see the blue woman wrestling Lena off of her, getting up, and making a run for her discarded rifle. You cringe and raise your own weapon as Lena dives after her, aiming to grab at her ankle, but the sniper then activates a grappling hook and zips herself out of the alleyway in one swift motion. 

Lena falls on her stomach. Her laughter then is breathy but pleased. "Mamma mia, here I go again," she mumbles as she gets up, positions herself low and ready to break into a sprint. "My my, how can I resist you?"

And then she's gone.

"She's grounded when we get back to base," you say to a smirking Angela. Reinhardt's snickering in the comm reminds you, a little too late, that everyone can hear you. You clear your throat and notice how they've all gone a little quieter now, and save for sporadic gunfire in the distance and a few explosions, so has the overall atmosphere around you and your team. "Everyone, report in," you say.

"The target has been secured for the most part," Genji responds. "Extraction is only a few minutes away. In the meantime, we are trying to push it back into the factory, but are still under heavy fire."

Reinhardt comes in next. "The Reaper guy is here; we could definitely use some backup!"

_Oh, for fuck's sake._ "Roger that. We'll be on our way." You look up to meet Angela's eyes, and she nods without you needing to say anything else. You nod back. Good — you missed having this with her, the camaraderie and easy teamwork. Her healing tether has long since been turned off, and your leg is feeling good enough for you to jog back into the fray. It's not fully healed, but it's something, and you're going to take it.

The wings on Angela's Valkyrie suit open behind her. She glides right behind you as you run back to your team, her tether once again engaged on you, enhancing your abilities — god bless modern medicine. "You are ready to do some damage, Soldier," she says, "but do not overdo it. Doctor's orders."

You roll your eyes and grunt a response.

When you make it to the fight in front of the factory, you see the contradiction of the controlled chaos going on and huff, annoyed. You roll in and open fire, notice Genji's still covering the area above while Reinhardt and Torbjörn hold the ground below. Torbjörn's turrets are undergoing heavy fire, but Reinhardt's shield is just about enough to keep them safe while the two of them push the cargo back inside. Torbjörn's deployed two turrets on top of the bomb, and it makes you nervous but you know it's good thinking on his part. 

Reinhardt needs a medic. You stop, shout for Angela, lower yourself, and bind your hands together in front of you. She sprints towards you and jumps, right foot landing in your hands, and you push her upwards with all of your strength. Before she reaches the vertex of her parabola Angela opens her suit's wings and glides away towards the heavily armoured man, tether engaging as soon as she's close enough.

You rise again, reload, and turn around when you hear a familiar deep laughter. There's that black smoke from Route 66 again, moving around you like a ghost. It stops to quickly form a shape over to your left, twin shotguns sticking out ready to fire, but before Reaper even has a chance to pull the triggers you throw yourself at him, swinging your rifle at his now-materialized face. 

He blocks with both shotguns. You hear him take in a breath before he speaks, voice tangled in a chuckle under his mask, "Well, well, well. If it isn't daddy dearest."

The growl in your throat could almost choke you. Great; so now even _Talon_ knows about the dad thing. You know he's trying to get you riled up so you don't answer, just grit your teeth, push down on him until he shoves you off. You pick yourself back up and fire your rifle, hear him snorting as he dissolves into black mist and reforms a few meters closer to you. "Who would've thought?" he sneers as you reload. "You never struck me as the paternal type."

You continue to keep your mouth shut and let your rifle do the talking. There's no reason for you to respond to Reaper's teasing, anyway; you just have to hold him focused on you, protect the bomb until backup arrives and helps you finish this mission off. He's one cheating son of a bitch, using his ability to turn himself into dust to avoid everything and anything you throw at him, and fighting him is starting to piss you off and tire you out.

"Ten minutes to extraction," you hear Mercy shouting somewhere behind you.  

Reaper's shotguns run out of ammo and he throws them on the ground. Just— just throws them, then reaches behind his back to pull out another two. You draw a sharp breath. What the hell? That's incredibly wasteful, but something else is bothering you. Haven't you... you've seen that before, haven't you?

He notices you staring and laughs, clicking the safeties off. "What are you looking at?" 

You snap back to reality, growl, and roll away from his rain of bullets. Careless, getting distracted like that. A vague memory flashes into your mind's eye, but you shove it aside to focus on running away from Reaper's angry fire. You take a sharp turn and activate your Visor, locking onto him; you see him walking slowly towards you, firing each shotgun once before the other. "What's wrong, boy scout?" you hear him say while he hastily reloads. "Old age's made you slower than you already were?"

Something at the back of your mind is stirring and making it harder to concentrate, so you shoot out a round of your helix rockets to hopefully get him to shut the hell up and give you some respite. He dodges them and you curse. Are his words getting to you? Hopefully not; you do know you're getting old, so it makes no sense for you to be sensitive about _that_ of all things. Jack Morrison was always one of the eldest in Overwatch, so you're used to the teasing. Even Reyes used to—

No. You're not going to think about that right now.

You dash forward while Reaper recovers from your rockets, swing with your rifle again when he's reloading. You could laugh. Shotguns, while effective in power, have the tactical disadvantage of having limited rounds to fire. You're trying to get him with some good old CQC while he can't fire at you; perhaps that's where his weaknesses lie. You throw in a couple of hits with your rifle, and he successfully counters with the shotgun on his left hand. The one on the right comes down to hit your head, but you maneuver the rifle out of its current lock and up to protect your skull—

Your stomach knots. You've... you've done this before, somewhere—

"Dad! I'm back!" Tracer's voice cuts your train of thought in half and rips it apart. She starts to say something about the sniper having run away from her, _somehow,_  and then promptly stops herself when she notices the fight going on. You curse and barely parry Reaper's next hit, kick at his legs to try and throw him off balance, away from you. You know Tracer is going to shove herself into the battlefield, unsupervised, direct all of the attention towards herself to act as decoy for everyone else, and that as long as you're engaged with Reaper there's nothing you can do to offer any kind of support.

You can't support any of them right now. Belatedly, you realize you've let your team down by focusing on one target only, forgetting to cover them all and act as a proper leader.  

"Five minutes to extraction! Keep it up, everyone!" Mercy says. You barely hear it over Reaper's cackling.

He loads his shotguns, twirls them just once. The move is reminiscent of McCree on a good day and it makes your blood freeze. "Still can't keep the kids under control, huh?" he's chiding you, tutting. Something's wrong here. "You were always a shit commander."

_Commander._

That word feels like a bullet lodging itself into your lungs, driving all the air out, leaving you gasping and staggering backwards. Oh, _no._  Your mind is going on hyperdrive, connecting the dots until everything's clicking into place. You're thinking too much all at once. Reaper lunges at you, disarms you, and you're thinking about sparring with Reyes. Reaper tosses a shotgun away and you're thinking about Reyes running out of ammunition and discarding his weapons in a hurry. Reaper overcomes your defenses, reaches for your neck, slams you against a wall with enough force to leave you breathless and dizzy and numb, and you're thinking about the last time you ever saw Reyes at the Swiss headquarters.

Until now.

He's breathing heavily on your face. "Reyes," you choke out. He growls at the word and presses you further into the wall. Your hands instinctively reach to grab at his painfully clawed hand around your neck. "Reyes—"

"Finally caught on,  _John?"_ His words make you cringe and hurt; he spits out your name, your _real name,_ like it's acid sitting on his tongue. There's nothing else in your field of vision save for his masked face, and the rest of the world is slowly going murky and quiet the longer you go without air to your lungs. "I knew you were slow, but this is a whole new level of _dense."_

"Reyes," you waste more oxygen on his name. The shock in you is slowly draining out, leaving behind sour anger and icy pain in your chest, and you end up gritting your teeth and trying to fight him off of you. You succeed in getting him to release you just enough for you to draw in a quick breath. "Reyes— What the _fuck,_ " you eventually push through. "Aren't you supposed to be dead?"

Reaper— _Reyes,_  Gabriel Reyes, he barks out a humourless laugh. "Shouldn't I be asking you that, pops?"

"Don't call me that." 

"But isn't everyone else having so much fun calling you their father?" Reyes's free hand, still holding a shotgun, appears in your field of view. You feel the warm barrel press into your forehead and your grip on his arm tightens. "That's not even your title and you know it. How selfish." _How petty,_ you mentally shoot back. "Tell me, Morrison," he snarls, leaning close to your face, "do you get your kicks out of stealing things from me? Honour, respect, the position as Commander—"

You aim a punch at his face. You're weak from asphyxiating so don't do much damage, but you mess up his mask, catch him off guard, and shock him into releasing you. You get a glimpse of a beard over dark skin and feel something snap in your chest. While he's busy righting himself back up, you move, push yourself away towards your rifle and take it back into your hands, coughing. 

"Fuck you," you wheeze, point your weapon at your former friend even though your vision's clouded. "Quit blaming me for things out of my control, _Gabriel."_

His clawed hand repositions his mask back in place. There is so much more you want to say, so many old thoughts you've sharpened like knives, so many hurtful things you've always wanted to scream at a man you  _loved,_ but you don't get to say anything. The words die in your throat when something catches you both by surprise: a helicopter, hovering up above the cargo you were supposed to be protecting. Backup has arrived first. Extraction will be here in no time, then. You'd almost forgotten about that. 

Soldiers rappel out of the helicopter, ready to help clean up the mess and secure the EMP bomb, and you know that Talon's playtime is over. Reaper seems to understand this as well — he curses in Spanish, shoots at you to get you out of the way, and rushes down the street. Your heart is aching, your ears are ringing. You're joined by another two soldiers when you open fire at him, but none of your bullets hit their target when he turns himself into black mist again.

He can't be immune forever. You see his misty form zig-zag around cars and debris, his laughter mocking and loud and echoing within your skull. You keep your finger tightly pressed against the trigger, let the sound of gunfire drown it out, muffle any other thought you could have. Someone's got to hit him.

Who knows how long you keep going like this, because by the time you blink yourself back to reality, cease fire, he and the rest of Talon's forces are already gone. Your magazine's empty. Angela's got her hands on your shoulders, speaking softly to get you to snap out of it, and when she sees you focus back on the present her hands fly to cup at your face over your mask.

She asks if you're okay. Your shoulders sag and you drop your gun. That seems to be enough of a reply to her, and soon enough her arms are engulfing you in a tight embrace. Over her shoulder you see extraction arrive, everyone getting ready to load the cargo and take it somewhere safer. Mission accomplished. 

Your laugh tastes bitter.

* * *

Jack Morrison and Angela Ziegler were once best friends. He would tell her everything that went down in his life, and she would often reciprocate by opening up about herself with the man. They could count on each other, back then; he knew she had his back, she knew he had hers. There's probably not a single person alive who knew him, and by extension, you, better than Angela does — not even Gabriel.

Gabriel Reyes. Thinking of him all dressed in black, wielding twin shotguns, riling you up in the middle of a battleground, makes you feel sick to your stomach with anger, resentment, and something resembling guilt. That last feeling you hate; you are not guilty of anything, so you crush your guilt between your grudge and your heartbreak until it seamlessly mixes with the two. With all these feelings bubbling up inside, all this rage and aggression, you really can't help slipping back into hold habits.

"He's alive," you say. You're sitting on an uncomfortable chair in the medical bay, about sixteen hours post-mission, with your head resting against your clasped hands propped upon the doctor's desk. Your mask is off. Angela still has some paperwork to fill. Originally, you were only here to make her company, but she's coerced you into talking and now you find that you cannot stop. "Gabriel Reyes is alive, and he tried to kill me again. This time as Reaper."

Angela's writing stills for just a second. She nods. "I saw him pin you against a wall," she mumbles. "You stayed like that for a few minutes. Were you talking?"

That actually makes you laugh. It's a low, rumbling, angry sound. The clarity of your voice without the mask feels foreign to your own ears. "If you'd like to call him insulting me for ten minutes and then blaming me for all his problems talking," you say, "then yes. We talked."

"He still blames you?" Your best friend looks at you out of the corner of her eye, eyebrow raised. "Why? That promotion wasn't your fault." 

You sigh. "Of course he still blames me, Angela. In his eyes, I took everything he ever loved from him."

"No, you did not. He's being so... he's just—" She stops talking mid-sentence. You turn to look at her just as she drops her pen, closes her eyes, and takes a deep breath. You can see the faint trembling on her shoulders but decide not to comment on it; you wait for her to calm down instead. "I'm sorry," she eventually whispers. "I'm sorry. I... He was my friend, too, and I just... This is difficult."

Difficult is an understatement; Angela has just recently found out, in the span of two weeks, that her two best friends whom she thought were dead for years are actually very much alive. Add to that Reyes' new affiliation with Talon, his new abilities and identity, and you're not really surprised when Angela begins to crumble right in front of you. Honestly, you're proud of her. She's held it together way longer than you did.

You sigh and place your right hand on top of hers. She holds onto it with a strong grip only you're familiar with. "I wonder, though," you say, trying to get her attention on something else. "How did he find out it was me? Actually, how did _you_ find out it was me?"

She actually laughs. "Back in Route 66," she squeezes your hand gently. "You called Tracer 'Lena' in such an exasperated, fatherly tone that I actually froze for a second. I had only heard one other person in my life say it like that — Jack Morrison himself."

"Ah. Betrayed by the parental instincts," you laugh along with her.

If it was your words and tone that alerted her to your identity, then maybe Reyes heard you, too, and came to the same conclusion on his own. You realize that, but find that you don't really care at the moment; you're too busy laughing together with Angela right now. This... It feels nice, feels light. For the first time in hours you're letting yourself feel something other than the miserable feeling Reyes shot into your heart, and you're going to enjoy the moment, damn it, savour it with all you've got. 

Your laughter is cut short, though not by your own thoughts, but by a knock on the door. Angela clears her throat as she rises from her seat, slowly making her way to it. She's giving you enough time to grab your mask and set it back on your face, and only opens the door when you give her a quick thumbs up to indicate that you're ready. 

"Sorry to interrupt," you hear someone say. You smile under your mask when you recognize the voice as D.Va's; you've actually missed her. "Is dad here? Winston said he was here."

Angela chuckles and steps aside to let her in. The girl perks up when she spots you here, runs up to you with her hands behind her back, and over her shoulder you catch Lúcio's wave as he, too, walks inside. You nod your head in greeting as Angela closes the door and moves back to her seat, but otherwise don't say anything.

It's not like you could, anyway, because D.Va's rapid-fire speaking is already asserting dominance as soon as she's standing in front of you. "Okay," she says, rocking on her heels. "So, Lúcio and I have something for you."

"Her idea," Lúcio points at the smaller girl. 

D.Va gently slaps his hand away. "Shush! It doesn't matter whose idea it was because either way it's awesome." She grins down at you, then in one swift motion what she's hiding behind her back is held out for you to look at. "Ta-dah! Happy father's day."

"It's not even father's day yet," Lúcio snorts, shrugging. "But happy father's day nonetheless." 

You raise your eyebrow at the object in D.Va's hands. It's a small box, covered with wrapping paper that has the word 'dad' in several different languages and fonts printed on it. You actually can't hold the chuckle that escapes your mouth as you take it, testing the weight to tease your younger teammates for a few minutes longer. "I can't believe it," you say. "You got me a box. Just what I wanted." 

Lúcio laughs while D.Va groans. "Oh my god, stop. Please just open it. No, wait—" D.Va reaches into her back pocket for her phone, unlocks it, and points it straight at you. She's totally recording you. "There. Now you can open it." 

"Are you really going to snapchat this?"

"Duh, Lúcio! Zarya wanted the _deets,_ so everyone's getting the _deets._ Sharing is caring." 

Do you want to know what a snapchat is? Probably not. While they talk, you look back to exchange a look with Angela, only to find her watching the scene, hand resting on her cheek, an amused smirk on her face. She raises her eyebrows at you, silently telling you to hurry up and open the gift. She's curious. You sigh and turn your attention back to the box in your hands, gently tear the wrapping apart to reveal—

Oh, _my god._ Happy father's day indeed.

 * * *

When you first joined the army you hadn't actually expected to stay for long. Just a brief stint in the armed forces, nothing more, and then you'd be back home with your family. Of course, your superiors had other plans for you; first the Soldier Enhancement Program, then your service during the Omnic Crisis within Overwatch. You never really got to go back home, but you kept your relatives close to your heart at all times, calling them and keeping them updated until the calls stopped connecting and the grief that followed finally reached the stage of acceptance.

You had nowhere to return to, but that didn't mean you had nowhere to belong. Your time within the SEP was frightening at best, horrifying at worst, but through it all there was always someone there to ground and support you. 

Gabriel Reyes.

His name now fills you with the dull ache of anger and vague longing, but once upon a time, it filled you with joy. You were close, before. Almost inseparable. He was always there for you, and you always did your best to aid him back, but you never really got to thank him for everything he ever did for you all those years. For all the times he saved your ass back in the military, for the rescues within the battlefield, for the recommendation you got, for the trust he placed on you when he made you his second-in-command while in Overwatch.

With what he's pulled, you don't know if he's even worthy of receiving those anymore, or where he fits in your life now. But back then it was obvious to anyone who paid attention that Jack Morrison was absolutely enamoured with Gabriel Reyes. Because he was always a constant in your life, no matter where you went, because he was always there for you, because he cared in his rough way that eventually won you over with time. And when the Overwatch unit became like a family, _your_  new family, it was always you with him, together at the top.

You lost that the day you lost him.

If only you could leave that behind. If only you could forget. You know now, though, that such things are impossible; no matter how far you run, how fast you go, the ghosts of your past just keep catching up, wielding shotguns and laughing at your despair. You're never going to be able to escape what happened so many years ago, especially now, but there's a difference between your pain back then and your pain now.

True, Gabriel is gone, and that hurts. He's been replaced by Reaper in the same way that Jack was replaced by Soldier: 76. But even without you both, leaderless, Overwatch is back. Stronger than ever, more hopeful than ever. And even if it's different now, you still feel at home with the team. You didn't know why at first, when you'd killed your Jack Morrison persona and tried to keep yourself distant, but it's slowly made itself apparent to you, scene by scene, moment by moment.

It's in the little things. It's in the way McCree first called you 'dad,' in the way everybody seemed to warm up to you and your old-fashioned attempts at making yourself useful, in the way Mercy calls you Jack while in private, in the way Zarya and Pharah pick you for sparring because they know they can learn the best techniques from you, in the way Reinhardt and Torbjörn make drinking dates and always invite you to come with. It's even in the '#1 Dad' mug Lúcio and D.Va bought and wrapped in tacky paper for you after they heard you weren't doing good emotionally, in the way the whole complex seems to brighten up with amusement whenever you walk in with it filled with your daily dose of caffeine.

It's things like these that help you realize that Overwatch is your family. Overwatch was always your family.  _This,_ you think, this is home, has always been your home, will always be home. This is where you belong. And— and who knows? Maybe, if you find him and beat enough sense into him, it could even be _his_ home again. 

You take a sip of the coffee in your new mug and sigh. It’s worth a try.

**Author's Note:**

> Some headcanons:
> 
> 1\. 76 mentally (and sometimes verbally, if he's not careful) refers to everyone he knew from Before by their real names whenever he's distracted or emotional  
> 2\. Gabriel Reyes is Afro-Mexican  
> 3\. Therefore, Reaper understands like 40% of Widow's French bullshit  
> 4\. McCree is Chicano and speaks English and Spanish  
> 5\. Gabriel was the only one (besides their Superiors) who knew Jack's real name is John  
> 6\. Gabriel, Angela, and Jack used to be a trio of super good friends. Gabe and Jack were Team Dad and Team Mom respectively while Angela was the Vodka Aunt. Tracer was the one who started the 'mom' and 'dad' thing Before  
> 8\. McCree named his gun because he loves it. Tracer named her pistols because she's a memer  
> 9\. Jack and Gabriel were This Close to pursuing a relationship, but then everything changed when the fire nation attacked  
> 10\. Widow always flirts back, but only really falls in love with Tracer after her thirtieth attempt to woo her in the battlefield. The one here was her twentieth  
> 11\. Gabriel Reyes was manipulated by a member of Talon who infiltrated Overwatch, was used to break up the team, and then got experimented on when the Swiss HQ blew up. He's still under Talon's control but it's really starting to slip through their fingers; he's becoming his own agent  
> 12\. Eventually 76 really does beat some sense back into Reaper and they take couple's therapy under Mercy and everything's wonderful and nothing hurts anymore. And they go back to being mom and dad. Let me dream
> 
> \---
> 
>  **EDIT:** Oh my gosh, you guys. Wowie. I just wanted to say thank you to everybody who has read, commented, and bookmarked this fic, because you've all been so lovely and sweet that I'm, like, totally gonna cry here ;w; I'm very glad people are enjoying this story!! And I hope I can deliver again with the next bit I've got planned for later :3c  
>  Thank you once again for reading and please have a good day!!!


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